Rococo (3 page)

“No, it’s not too much to ask.” But even agreeing with her can’t stop the onslaught.

“I’m besmirched.” She takes a stack of Nicky’s briefs and smooths them flat with her hand before returning them to the laundry basket. “No one wants besmirched. Ma married a lousy cheater, and I did the same. Shame on me for being sucked into the flume of infidelity and spit out the other end like charred rubble. Why couldn’t I see what was happening under my nose? I shoulda known better. Or, at the very least, I should’ve known something. If my ex-husband walked through the door right now, I’d throw a chair at him.”

“Which is probably why he doesn’t visit.” And probably why he left, but I won’t say that out loud. Why pile on?

“Maybe it’s the end of the road for me, but not for you. You should marry Capri Mandelbaum.” Toot places the laundry basket on the window seat.

“I do not like the word
should.
”

“You can afford to be cavalier. If you want to marry”—she snaps her fingers—“you can. A man can always find a woman, but a woman after a certain age can only find heartache. Lucky you. You don’t know what it’s like when loneliness is thrown on you like a burlap tarp and you can’t breathe some nights from the regret.” Toot refills my coffee mug.

“I doubt I’ll regret anything.”

“I’m older than you. I know all about it. The day comes when your youth leaves you like a dying whiff of Jean Naté. You still have your hair and your waistline, B. Look at Capri, she’s turning forty. God knows she’s lonely too, with that myopia so bad she can’t even see her own hand without glasses. She needs you, you need her.”

“I know what I need,” I say quietly.

“Take Capri away for a weekend. It’ll be like throwing two old cats in a closet—something will happen. You’ll either kill each other or mate.” Toot burps the Tupperware cookie saver.

“What a lovely proposition either way.”

“Go on, joke. I don’t understand you. She’s rich! The Mandelbaums have more money than Onassis, and it’s even better because it’s American dough. Can’t you see? You could redecorate the entire state of New Jersey; the old lady would write the check. You could be hanging chandeliers in the men’s room at the Shell station on Route 9, for godsakes.”

“That’s not my goal. I want to make the world elegant. Decorating homes is satisfying, but I have a bigger dream.” The moment I say it aloud, I’m sorry I did.

“What?”

“It’s bigger than just being rich or decorating gas stations.”

Toot sits down. “You don’t want to move out of town, do you? ’Cause if you moved, I’d kill myself.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Thank God.” Toot exhales. “What is it, then?”

“I want to renovate and redesign the Fatima church.”

Toot waves me away like a gnat. “You’ve spent your whole life there. I don’t see why Father Porporino wouldn’t give you the job. You’re the only decorator in town.” She cups her hand at the edge of the table and scoots a couple of crumbs off the tiles.

“I should get the job because I have a vision for the church, not because there are no other candidates.”

“You and your megamania.”

I don’t bother to correct her. This time, she’s close enough.

She continues, “Relax. I’ve never seen a room of yours that I didn’t love. You may be the only decorator in town, but you’re also the best.”

My sister makes no sense, but I’m in no mood to explain and the cookies are giving me a sugar drop that makes me feel like I’m plummeting in an elevator shaft. I hold my head. Toot gets up and leans against the sink. She surveys her backyard as she folds her hands, looking eerily like the Saint Theresa statue on the window ledge. “What’s going to become of us?” she says. “I’m gonna wind up all alone like Aunt Teeney, who went to sleep sucking on a sourball and choked to death after it lodged in her throat like a pinball, creating a dry socket that paralyzed her larynx and killed her dead. Who’ll be there for me?”

I feel a rush of pity for my sister, but I resist it. Her Miriam Hopkins act isn’t going to wash with me. “Oh, please, you are not alone. Who comes when you call?”

She takes a moment to think about it. “You do.”

“Who papered your living room and hung your sconces?”

“You did.”

“Look at this kitchen! It’s a triumph of design! It could be in
House and Garden
! Brand-new everything from stove to cassoulet pot.” I get up and join her at the sink.

“I love what you did in here. I do.” She reaches up and runs her hands over the copper pots. They tinkle like chimes.

“Who helped you buy your new car and took you into the city for toe surgery—”

“That hurt worse than the pelvic bone,” she says quietly.

“I’ve always been here for you.” I put my arms around her. “And I always will be. So knock it off.”

“Every man I’ve ever known has let me down . . . except you. Three vaginal births, and you drove me to the hospital every single time.”

“That’s right. I did.”

“You even cut little Two’s cord. Lonnie was in Miami. He was always in Miami.” Toot pulls a handkerchief from under her bra strap; she unfolds it and blows her nose. “You know, I’ve never been to Miami.”

“You want to go to Florida? I’ll take you.”

“No thanks. Too much humidity. My hair goes to Brillo in that heat. But you’re a prince to invite me.” Toot takes my hand. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. So I’m going to make you a birthday party.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am. I’ve already planned the whole thing with cousin Christina. Poor thing. She’s so depressed. I was hoping a party would help her through her grief.”

I yank my hand away. “I can’t believe you’re guilting me like this.”

“What guilt?” Toot looks off in the middle distance innocently.

“No party!”

“I know you hate surprises—”

“Detest them!” I rap my fist on the counter to make the point.

“So I’m telling you all about it beforehand. The guests, of course, will think it’s a surprise, because I have to have something for them to do.”

“No!”

“I want to give back. Let me do this. Forty is a millstone.”

“Milestone,” I correct her.

“Whatever. All the cousins want to come.”

“I can’t stand those people.”

“All these years you gave them gifts. Let them buy
you
a present for a change.”

“I still have fifteen wallets from my thirtieth birthday party.”

“You should have returned them.”

“And gotten what?”

“A professional man like you can always use ties and handkerchiefs.”

“Have you seen how they dress? I’ll choose my own accessories, thank you. No party! Do you understand plain English? No!”

Toot checks her manicure and then looks at me. “Too late. I already cleaned out the garage.”

As I drive to Freehold I’m tempted to get out of the car and throw myself into the manmade lake outside the industrial park to cleanse myself of my sister’s bitterness. I don’t know what she’s complaining about. Her ex set her up for life. To this day, Lonnie sends her jewelry; in return, my sister makes a pot of gravy and meatballs and sends it over on the first Sunday of the month. Granted, it’s not a fair exchange—the pieces Lonnie sends are samples, and half the time the bales are flimsy and the clasps don’t catch—but perhaps it’s the thought that should count.

My nephew Nicky resides
con inammorata
(there’s a handwritten card that says “Doyle/Falcone” on the mailbox) in a ranch on Main Street in Freehold. It’s a pleasant neighborhood with houses facing one another in the cul-de-sac like triangular wedges of cheesecake on a platter.

The ranch has a faux-brick front, a two-car garage, and the bane of any decorator’s existence, cheesy Florida windows, the kind that open out in flaps. I ring the bell. When no one answers, I knock on the door.

“Hey, stop beatin’ the door, you’re scarin’ the cat!” I hear Ondine’s muffled voice through the door’s small rectangular windows, which are lined with stick-um-stained glass. She opens the door and smiles. “Oh, hi.” She’s busty, with a fading tan, wearing an Empire-waist smock dress. Her long blond hair is hoisted into a fountain ponytail on top. In the bright sun she looks a solid thirty-five, which is why I don’t like to know chronological ages—once you know, the person looks every day of the number. Her eyes are as powdery blue as Toot’s frosting. She squints as she takes a drag off a cigarette. I hand her the paper plate of cookies. “For you and my nephew.”

“Bar-toe-low-may-oh.” It rolls off her tongue slowly as she exhales a puff of smoke. I cough.

“Your mother-in . . . rather, my sister, Toot, sent me over.”

“She tole me all about it. She thinks I don’t know how to decorate a house. For her information, I’ve lived in one since the day I was born.” Ondine reaches down and picks up the cat. “This is Pierre.” The cat looks like an oversized fuzzy slipper with eyes.

I look around the living room, a postcollege mishmash of donations: a plaid couch, a green velvet lounger, and a glass coffee table with four wrought-iron owls holding it up along the edges.

“Ignore this room,” she says, and motions for me to follow her.

“With pleasure,” I tell her cheerfully.

“This is my dilemma.” Ondine puts the cat down on the shag carpet. For a moment I can’t tell where the salt-and-pepper shag ends and Pierre begins. “The dining room.”

I give it a quick survey. The room has one solid wall; the opposite wall is lined with the long, thin Florida windows. It might as well be a tunnel, it’s so narrow. It reminds me of Captain Kirk’s time-travel capsule on
Star Trek.

“What would you do in here?” She stands too close to me as I examine the room.

“I’d move.”

Ondine throws her head back and laughs. “No. Seriously.”

“You need draperies, floor-length, to give the illusion of height.”

“I like draperies,” she coos.

“You need a long server on this wall.”

“Okay.”

“That”—I point to the ugly dining room table and chairs—“must go.”

“But it was my grandmother’s.”

“She gave it away for a reason.”

“She died.”

“Oh, you inherited it. Do you know the value of sentimental is zero?”

“Not to me! I could never part with it. It’s all I got from her. That, and these”—she points to her décolletage—“for which I am grateful.”

“I see.” Ondine does have a great figure, and her bustline is surely something to be proud of. I look at the walls. “What I would recommend is mirrors on the far wall, to open up the room.

“That’s what I thought!” she squeals. “It needs to feel wider. More light! Yeah, I love mirrors!” She winks at me inappropriately.

“Right. And then you need a new dining room suite, one with a circular glass-top table. The chairs should be open, with polished-cotton seats.” I turn around, trying to determine the dominant color scheme in the house. There is none. I go with a classic. “A bold white-and-chocolate-brown stripe. Polished cotton is best because it repels stains; you know, spaghetti sauce and kitty accidents.”

“But I want to keep the suite. Can’t you paint it or something?” She runs her hand over the heavy dark brown Regency table like she’s massaging a sore thigh muscle. Her affection for the furniture doesn’t make it any more attractive. This clunky repro looks like an operating table you’d find in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. The claw feet are particularly obtrusive and ugly, but not to be outdone, the chairs have hideous bishop-hat finials.

“If you insist on keeping this furniture, there’s no point in mirroring the wall.”

“Why?”

“Because, Ondine”—I feel myself losing patience—“you should never look at shit twice.”

Ondine follows me to the front door and opens it. “I’ll think about selling it,” she says quietly.

“You do that.”

“What do you think I could get for it?”

“I’m not an antiquarian.”

“Oh, okay.” Ondine looks confused, then she smiles brightly. “Well, thank you for coming over.” She leans over and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. Then she steps out onto the stoop. “You’re a gentleman with fine taste. I trust you with my domicile.” She does a slow inventory of me, starting at my feet (in black suede Gucci loafers), moving on to my gray Paul Stuart wool trousers and finally my black V-neck cashmere sweater. She gazes through me like she’s wearing X-Ray Specs, those magic eyeglasses they sell in the back of comic books that claim you’ll be able to see people without their clothes on. “I wish Nicky had one thimbleful of the class you got.”

I don’t know what to say, so I smile politely and turn to go. She grabs me around the neck, pulls my face toward hers, and kisses me again. This time she drags her tongue over my upper lip. I pull away when I feel the wet warmth.

“Ondine, I am almost technically your uncle!” I look around to see if anyone has witnessed us. I fish my handkerchief out of my trouser pocket and purse my lips to discourage any further activity.

“I’m in charge of the decorations for your birthday party. I’m thinking balloons.” She gives me that wink again.

After a strenuous day of meeting clients, plowing through paneling samples at the lumberyard, and mixing paint at the hardware store, I am starving and ready for a martini. I pull into the Mandelbaums’ driveway in Deal with a coconut-cream pie I picked up at Delicious Orchards on Route 34 in Colts Neck. I went out of my way for the pie, not only because it’s Aurelia’s favorite, but because I need her support. There are rumblings that Father Porporino is finally prepared to renovate our church, and I need my good friend Aurelia to put my name at the top of the list for the big job.

Capri, my friend since I had a memory, meets me at the front door. She is a petite five feet tall, which has always made me feel protective of her. When we were babies, our mothers hatched a scheme that we would someday marry. Mama said, “They’re rich and we have taste. That’s a perfect match.” Here we are, thirty-nine years later, and the scheme is still in full swing, at least in Aurelia’s mind. A doting mother with a firm hand on the control switch, she has always handpicked everything for Capri, from her socks to her college curriculum to me. Aurelia Castone Mandelbaum is a local Italian girl who married so well she never looked back. To her credit, she never forgot where she came from, but she sure liked the other side once she got there.